


now baby don't be shy (you better cross the line)

by quakenbake (raccoontitties)



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccoontitties/pseuds/quakenbake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GKM prompt: Santana is new to McKinley and immediately takes to the stunning blonde in her English class. Featuring Boy Clothes!Santana and Nerd!Quinn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	now baby don't be shy (you better cross the line)

There’s tardy, there’s outright late, and then there’s fucked. In terms of attendance, Santana is most definitely fucked. Slamming down on the gas and cutting across a parking lot to shave a few minutes off her commute, she racks up about five different moving violations between her house and McKinley High. Deftly swearing around a station wagon to make a yellow light would be pretty impressive at another time. But this is the second time she’s been late to school this week. It’s Wednesday. She curses to herself, not looking forward to seeing the crabby attendance secretary with the patronizing tone that sets Santana’s teeth on edge. Honestly, it would be nice if they just handed over the damn slip and stopped making her even later for first period. As soon as she’s out of earshot they’re going to complain about her bad attitude and ‘failure to adjust’ but Santana doesn’t give a flying fuck. It’s bad enough she had to move to here in the middle of the school year to begin with; she doesn’t have to act happy about it. And she certainly doesn’t have to listen to a lecture from an old broad who’s about a year away from assisted living anyway.  
  
Hurrying down the hall, Santana doesn’t bother stopping by her locker. Yeah, she doesn’t really like Lima, but she also doesn’t mean to be  _this_  late, gingerly opening the door to her AP English class about twenty minutes into the period. It’s stupid to bother, really. No matter how stealthily she enters the room, she needs to pass the teacher to get to her seat. There’s also the fact that the other students can see her drop her pass on the desk and slink towards her seat at back of the room.  
  
“It’s nice of you to join us. Ms. Lopez.” Mrs. Ryan points to the blackboard, indicating that they’re still discussing  _The Handmaid’s Tale._  As Santana slides between the desks, a flash of hazel catches her eye. She wills herself not to look this time. But she looks. She always looks. The girl sits in the second seat all the way to the left. Her name is Quinn and when Santana comes in late, she always smirks a little like it amuses her. It’s annoying. Santana has a couple classes with her and what’s even more annoying than her holier-than-thou, teacher’s pet attitude is the way her beautiful eyes cut straight through Santana and make her feel completely exposed. She meets those eyes for maybe a second before pointedly turning away and taking her seat. Quinn turns back to give Mrs. Ryan what is surely 110% of her attention. Santana takes out her book and opens it to the chapter they’re currently dealing with and then proceeds to stare at a shimmery fall of golden hair for the next 25 minutes.  
  
The bell rings and Mrs. Ryan asks Santana to stay after, probably to discuss her chronic tardiness. Her top notch grades mean she’s not overly worried, but she knows that’s the only reason they aren’t giving her more shit about it. She takes her time packing her stuff because Quinn is following up with the discussion that got interrupted. She and the teacher are like competing to see who can out-nerd the other. The way Quinn’s face lights up about anything vaguely academic was mildly cute at first. But now, when she’s the only thing standing between Santana and the rest of her day, it’s not so cute. Santana perches on top of a desk near the front of the room, setting her left foot over her right knee and fiddling with the laces off her green Chuck Taylors. She must space out a little because she’s intently watching Quinn talk when Mrs. Ryan turns to address Santana. There’s a subtle arch of an eyebrow before Quinn finally steps out into the hallway.  
\---  
Quinn leaves the room smiling. Unless she’s imagining it, the new girl had definitely stared at her mouth for the better part of five minutes. The way Santana hastily averted her eyes when caught confirmed it. Quinn thinks it’s fair to assume Santana is gay. She doesn’t like to jump to conclusions, but the girl’s clothes are a not so subtle hint. Really, she wore overalls on the first day of school. Today, a light green t-shirt with the USATF logo stretches snugly across her chest. It’s tucked into a pair of tight fitting boyfriend jeans rolled up a couple times to reveal slim ankles and a pair of brightly patterned socks. The hole at the should mean cheap, but Quinn knows for a fact that particular brand runs for almost $200 a pair. Maybe Quinn liked the way they fit on Santana and looked them up. Maybe the tomboy look should repulse her, but it doesn’t. Santana dresses comfortably, but everything she wears looks good on her. From the way her jeans sit low on her hips to the leather jacket she often wears because she’s trying to look cool but really is just cold because she isn’t used to Ohio weather yet. Sometimes there are suspenders. The point isn’t that Quinn spends a lot of time admiring Santana’s wardrobe, but that Santana’s clothes make her seem pretty gay. So does the way her eyes burn a hole in the back of Quinn’s head everyday. It’s vain, but Quinn is endlessly flattered. She’s also interested.  
\---  
When not in her presence, Santana can usually keep Quinn Fabray off her mind. If not, she can always run any troubling thoughts away. The only upside of transferring to McKinley is that they have a fairly good track team. The coach, Ms. Sylvester, is an evil bitch but she’s led the team to more conference championships and sent more athletes to the Meet of Champions in the last ten years than any one else in the entire state.  
  
She took one look at Santana and told her that the only way she could compete in her main jumping events was if trying out for the 4 x 4 relay team. Figuring it was just a quirk; she’d done it and just barely edged about another girl for a spot. Unfortunately. Sylvester is also the sprint coach and doesn’t consider it a valid practice until someone vomits from exhaustion. Today the team practices baton passes and Santana happily runs the third leg. Brittany anchors and you could practically throw the baton at the back of her head and she’d still catch it. She’s that good. It’s lucky because every failed pass equals a set of bleachers and Santana really would just rather not.  
  
After what feels like forever, the rest of the sprinters start out on a long run but Santana trots across the football field to practice the events she actually signed up for. Some people would call it lucky to get out of the run, but those people are idiots. It’s hard as hell to high jump when your legs feel like jelly. Instead of setting up, she heads to the pole vault area and flops down on the mat. Mike Chang, the only vaulter on either the girls’ or boys’ teams, halts his approach and rests his pole against his shoulder.  
  
“Hey” he calls out. “You know I can’t jump with you laying there, right?”  
  
She rolls onto her stomach and waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure you can take a 10 minute break from working your pole to talk to your buddy.”  
  
Mike rolls his eyes, but comes over and sits down next to her just like she knew he would.  
  
He's pretty much her only friend in town, which kind of doesn’t make sense considering people usually find her pretty abrasive. For some reason though, Mike thinks her bitchery is funny most of the time, so she doesn’t question it. It was Mike that coached her into clearing five feet since Schuester, the jumping coach, is possibly the most useless person alive. In turn, Santana sometimes helps Mike carry all his crap back to the storage shed after practice. They’ve been friends ever since.  
  
Mike tugs on her ponytail and she slaps his hand. “Quit it, Chang.”  
  
“Are you in a cranky mood today?”  
  
“No.”  _Yes._  
  
Mike always hears the silent answer and just waits for the truth to come out. His knowing glance grates on Santana so she heaves out a sigh and explains.  
  
“If I’m late again they’ll call my mom, or worse I’ll get disciplinary action and they’ll tell coach. And she'll make me run bleachers until my legs fall off.”  
  
“Why don’t you just get up earlier?”  
  
“Cause this place sucks and it’s an ordeal to get out of bed at all.”  
  
Mike’s a good friend but he never indulges her theatrics as much as he should.  
  
“Come on Santana. We need to practice." He’s laughing at her like her struggles are funny. This shit is serious; she used to live in a real city with real people. Why does she even put up with this clown?  
  
He grabs her leg and drags her to the edge of the mat.  
  
“Get up. If you get over 5’2” today, I’ll take you to Taco Bell.”  
  
 _That_  is why she puts up with him.  
\---  
Santana is sprawled out in the middle of her bedroom floor doing homework. Everything is done except English. She leaves that for last. It’s ironic because it’s her favorite subject, but since coming to McKinley, it has increasingly become associated with Quinn Fabray. There’s nothing wrong with Quinn unless you count her snooty behavior and the habit she has of correcting people. Or the twisty feeling that erupts in Santana’s stomach every time she says anything with that husky voice of hers. It’s distressing how often Santana thinks about that girl. Quinn’s not even that hot. Not really. Stunningly beautiful or drop-dead gorgeous, sure. But hot? No. It’s all pretty irrelevant. Between the gold cross around her neck and the all-American persona, Quinn is as straight as they come and Santana is completely over crushing on straight girls. No, thank you.  
  
Because it’s  _Ohio_ , she hasn’t even bothered check out the gay scene. The only person who even knows about her sexuality is Mike. He asked her out after he’d broken the school’s pole vault record. Santana admits it might have been misleading when she jumped on him and yelled congratulations in his ear before kissing him on the cheek. Which is why she felt little guilty when she’d toed the ground and mumbled, ‘I’m gay.’ Afterward, she bought him a burger and made sure to explicitly inform him that she still thought he was pretty and if the two of them ever had to repopulate the world, she’d be all up on that. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but they refused to let it get awkward. He still looks at her ass every once in while, but they wear tight Lycra shorts 80% of the time, so it’s really not his fault. Its not like she doesn’t check him out too. She’s a lesbian, not blind. Nothing is hotter than tight muscular legs, regardless of gender.  
  
It’s kind of sad. She’s lived in Lima for just over two months and the closest she’s gotten to any action is accidentally hitting on a guy she doesn’t want and said guy playfully slapping her ass during practice. Lack of sex is something she should really fix. It’s something she seriously vows to fix when she thinks of Quinn as she comes around her own fingers.  
\---  
Quinn uncovers even more evidence for her Santana-is-a-huge-lesbian theory as she watches her chat up a cheerleader by the lockers. Santana may not dress in a feminine way, but she wears flawless makeup her long eyeless flutter coyly as she flirts shamelessly. Their posture is very telling. Santana leans against the lockers like boys do, but she’s not nearly as invasive of personal space. Instead, she merely angles herself in such a way that makes it clear whomever she’s talking to has her full attention. The girl giggles and Quinn recognizes her as Sugar –something, a relatively nondescript sophomore Cheerio. Her laughter is obnoxious and carries harshly across the hallway, but that obviously doesn’t bother Santana. Sugar twirls her hair around her fingers and seriously, that girl is a huge high school cliché. Quinn doesn’t know why she’s oddly disappointed, but she thought Santana had better taste.  
  
“That’s hot,” the voice startles her. She whips around and nearly collides with Tina, who avidly watches the exchange between the two girls. It’s almost like she’s trying to picture them together, which just...no.  
  
“You’re terrible.”  
  
“Excuse me, as an artist, I have an appreciation for what looks good. And that is very aesthetically pleasing.”  
  
Quinn very much wants to disagree, but she doesn’t want to clue Tina in to her irritation. Tina is the only person who knows Quinn has any interest whatsoever in girls, so she’d definitely try to infer something that isn’t there. It also doesn’t help that she’s the biggest gossip in 3 counties.  
  
Tina must finish imagining Sugar and Santana in inappropriate sexual scenarios, because she nudges Quinn and asks, “Do you think that’s the start of a new power couple?”  
  
As if. Sugar isn’t even close to having what it takes to be Head Cheerio and her main personality characteristic is flightiness. Santana is pretty,  _really_  pretty, but she’s new and in almost as many AP classes as Quinn. Nothing about that would make a power couple. She isn’t even sure anything about that would make a functional couple.  
  
She looks over again as she closes her locker. Sugar reaches up to tug on the strap of Santana’s bag, urging her to step closer. Santana isn’t quite as comfortable with a public display as Sugar, because she resists a little and scans the area to see who’s paying attention. No one is, except Quinn. Their eyes lock and Quinn sees something there that she can’t place. It looks like irritation but when Santana turns her head back to Sugar, it’s with a blinding smile and Quinn figures she must have imagined it. Finally, the warning bell rings and she takes the chance to head to class.  
\---  
OK, seriously? Fuck Quinn Fabray.  
  
That Sugar girl is totally into her. Honestly, a little too into her, but she’s a cheerleader. Santana has a big thing for cheerleaders, or she used to. The satisfaction from getting Sugar’s number fades when she sees Quinn. At first she's startled by how closely Quinn watches them and then by the jolt those eyes always send coursing through her. Then she gets pissed. Santana knows judgment when she sees it. That’s what small towns are for, right? Sure, it’s risky to hit on a girl in the middle of the hallway, but it’s still her fucking business. If Quinn is one of those Bible thumpers, she’d better think twice before saying anything about it. And if Quinn is indeed rolling holy, Santana is even more screwed than she thought. Quinn with her blazers and her baby doll dresses and her Hermione Granger-like obsession with answering teachers’ questions, is throwing her for a loop. It’s getting more and more obvious to Santana that she doesn’t want a girl; she wants Quinn.  _What even?_  
  
Their only other class together is gym and that quickly turns into one of the most unfortunate things to happen to Santana since moving to Lima. Quinn usually wears loose sweats that are pretty conservative and unobtrusive. But today, something made her decide to wear these ridiculously tiny shorts. They aren’t indecent really; they’re longer than Santana’s by a good inch and a half, but that’s more leg than Quinn has ever shown. Because of the alphabet, Santana is once again behind Quinn and to the side, giving her a perfect view of strong calves and thighs. Coach Beiste, the Phys. Ed teacher, leads them in stretches and the view is glorious. When they bend over for the hamstring stretch, Santana thinks she might pass out. It’s not fair that a. Quinn hides legs like that under her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and b. that Santana has to look but not touch. Nothing is fair right now.  
  
They’re playing volleyball and unfortunately Quinn is on her team. When it’s her serve, she can’t concentrate and ends up sending the ball directly into the back of Mike’s head. He grumbles angrily like she did it on purpose. Granted, activities with balls aren’t really her forte - _ha_ \- but she usually isn’t this uncoordinated. Instead of waiting for him to toss the ball back to her, she steps into his spot.  
  
“Take my serve for me?”  
  
“Why?” He gestures across the net were the other side waits impatiently. “Aim for their heads instead of mine and you’ll be fine.”  
  
She shoves the ball into his chest harder than she needs to.  
  
“Just fucking switch, Mike.”  
  
He calls her something unflattering under his breath and she’s probably going to have to buy him a candy bar or something at lunch to soothe his feelings, but he should stop asking stupid questions. Santana bends over right in front of the net with three people between her and the sight of any part of Quinn’s body. The game goes better, but she can feel the curious glances tossed her way.  
  
Those goddamn shorts ruin the rest of her week. Now that she knows what’s under those skirts, she can’t stop thinking about how much  _she’d_  also like to be under them. She knows that if she sets Quinn on the teacher’s desk and slides the hem up over her knees, all that creamy skin would be hers for the taking. She wonders how Quinn’s legs would feel wrapped snugly around her hips, tightened around her waist as she presses Quinn against the nearest hard surface. She wonders how they’d feel wrapped around her head.  
  
This time, she doesn’t realize she’s drifted off until Quinn turns around and looks directly at her. Santana would worry that she’s telepathic, but everyone else is staring at her too.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Use your words. Santana.” Mrs. Ryan fold her arms across her chest and frowns at Santana like she’s the most aggravating person on earth. Which could possibly be true.  
  
Santana grits her teeth, slaps a fake smile on her face and says, “My sincerest apologies, could you please repeat what you were saying?” She’s full of crap and her teacher knows it. Her smartass quip earns a few chuckles from around the room as well as a fresh glare from Mrs. Ryan. Quinn is still facing in her direction and Santana sees the ghost of a smile, like she wants to laugh too, but knows she shouldn’t.  
  
“Santana, you’re with Quinn.”  
  
Not yet she isn’t but maybe –  _wait_ … “Huh?”  
  
Mrs. Ryan sighs. “You know if I didn’t personally grade all your papers, I’d think the English language was escaping you. For the midterm project you and Ms. Fabray are partners. I’d like to finish assigning the rest of the class, so if you have any more questions, you can ask her.”  
  
“Oh. Ok.”  
  
 _Uh oh._  
\---  
Quinn surveys the cafeteria looking for a familiar head of dark hair. More often than not she treats lunch as a free period and gets ahead on her homework. Today she wants to discuss her project with Santana, but also she wants to actually talk to the girl to see how this partnership is going to work. Those dark eyes still linger on her sometimes and she hasn’t heard anything about Sugar and Santana, which makes her happy. Sugar is a slut and Santana seems nice. Well, she doesn’t seem  _exactly_  nice or nice at all, but she seems smarter than a fling with some random hussy. In any case, they’re going to have to spend a considerable amount of time together so they need to at least talk.  
  
Santana is sitting with Mike or rather sitting against Mike. He’s eating with his right hand while Santana leans her back into his left side and stretches her legs out along the rest of the bench. She’s wearing a faded red and blue striped jersey that Quinn suspects has a lot more to do with some sports team than the United Nations Children’s Fund. Over that, she’s wearing those overalls again, and Quinn really shouldn’t like them as much as she does.  
  
Mike says something and Santana tips her head back further against his shoulder to look up at him. Whatever it is, Santana doesn’t agree and she starts gesticulating wildly to illustrate her point. Mike glances down at her before shrugging so suddenly that she has to grab the table to keep from falling to the floor. She punches him, but smiles as she does it and Quinn wonders if she let those overalls give her the wrong idea. Santana and Mike seem to have a really good rapport and as far as she knows they’re both single. They’d make a really attractive couple.  
  
Her smile shrinks a little as she approaches their table.  
  
“Hey, Santana. I know it’s early, but I want to discuss our project and plan out the general direction we’ll be taking. Do you have time now?”  
  
Santana squints at her for a second before slowly nodding. Quinn looks over at Mike, “Is that OK? I don’t want to interrupt.”  
  
Mike shakes his head. “Nope, I need to grab some stuff from my locker, anyway. Later, Santana.”  
  
Santana’s mouth falls open little and she frowns up at Mike. He ignores it and tugs her hair a little as he stands and leaves the table. Santana glares at his back for a few seconds like she’s angry at him for abandoning her. She turns back around and clears her throat.  
  
“Sounds good.” her voice is husky and a faint flush spreads over her cheeks.  
  
Quinn notices that the supposedly sharp-tongued and tough Santana can’t meet her eyes. Her gaze keeps flitting from her own hands to some vague point over Quinn’s shoulder. She gets right into the project because, cute behavior aside, that’s why she really came over here. They spend the rest of lunch debating their topic.  
  
Quinn wants to try a comprehensive study of feminist themes. Santana nods along while she’s talking and for the first time since Quinn sat down, looks her in the eye. Quinn feels like she’s getting the same treatment as Sugar, where without physically moving Santana has tuned completely into what she’s saying. It's a new, thrilling feeling for Quinn. She hasn’t exactly had the worst high school experience, but a lot of the time, outside of class, she feels invisible.  
  
Santana takes her proposal and tweaks it to explore the feminist perspective specifically in horror and science fiction and then rattles off a list of movies that they could incorporate. Quinn is more than a little appalled. Never in her life would she consider anything in a movie as acceptable for a serious academic undertaking and she says so. Rather than taking offense, like Quinn expects, Santana shakes her head and presents her case. She throws out names like Kristeva and Sobchack that Quinn feels like she should know. What strikes her most is the earnest way Santana speaks. The excitement in her voice and the way she punctuates her statements with hand gestures is particularly captivating. Santana isn’t just pulling the movie angle to do less work. In fact, her suggestion sounds more complex than Quinn’s. She knows what she’s talking about. Nothing is more attractive to Quinn than intelligence. She can’t deny that Santana is very attractive to her right now.  
  
In the end, they meet halfway; agreeing to use only movies objectively considered classics or inspired by books. It’s a really good proposal, the traditional academic approach combined with a fresh take. Quinn smiles as she writes her number and address on a piece of paper and hands it to Santana.  
  
She says, “You should come over Saturday morning and we can get started.”  
  
“No. I mean, I would.” Santana blushes again. “But I have a meet this weekend. It’s a home meet, so I can come after. Cool?”  
  
There’s such a striking difference between this Santana and the one who expounded in great detail on the why the ‘final girl’ was such an important development in ‘70s slasher flicks. As the bell rings and they head in separate directions, Quinn aims to see more of both.  
\---  
On a whim, Quinn drives to the high school Saturday morning. She’s curious about what takes up so much of Santana’s time. No one really knows much about her aside from the fact that she’s a little prickly and that she’s on the track team. As expected, the girls’ track meet is not very popular. The only non-athletes seem consist of a smattering of parents lounging in the bleachers. Quinn stands by the fence next to the track and watches a few races, but doesn’t see Santana. A few moments pass and the parents get up and line the fence. It’s the last race of the meet and it’s apparently a very big deal. Santana is on the track now, lined up with three other girls in the same red uniform. The starting gun fires and the racers take off like a shot. There are four teams running and the McKinley team holds steady in second place for the first two laps. When the baton is handed off to Santana, Quinn leans over the fence to get a better look.  
  
Santana looks beautiful like this, majestic even, with her legs pumping and the ends of her ponytail flying in the wind. She closes the gap and very nearly edges into first. When she passes the baton to her teammate, the competition is quickly over. The last runner, a blonde girl with the longest legs of anyone on the track, blazes past everyone and crosses the finish line several feet before anyone else. She watches as the blonde picks Santana up and swings her around before the other two jump on them and they fall to the ground in a mess of tangled legs and arms. Santana pulls herself off the ground and Quinn can see her smile from the stands. There’s a corresponding pull low in her stomach. Santana looks like some kind of magical creature right now and Quinn badly wants to see that smile up close and have it directed at her and maybe feel it against her own lips.  
  
By the time Santana gets all her gear together, Quinn is by the edge of the track waiting for her. She’s tapping away on her phone and doesn’t notice Quinn right away.  
  
“You looked good out there.”  
  
“Hi, thanks.” She’s like a deer in headlights. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“School spirit. I’m cheering for the team.”  
  
“This is girls track”  
  
Quinn shrugs. “Half of your t-shirts are always from some relay. I wanted to see if you were actually any good.”  
  
Santana scoffs. “Please, I’m fucking excellent.”  
  
“Oh, I can tell.” And there’s that sheepish blush again. Instead of calling Santana on it, she changes the subject.  
  
“Will you be too tired to work later? We can reschedule.”  
  
“No just…I can shower in the locker room and come right over. I need get my car though, since my brother has it today.”  
  
“I can drive you. I’m already here, right?”  
  
“Yeah. Ok.”  
  
“You should probably get moving though.”  
\---  
In the locker room, Santana showers for far longer than necessary. For one, she feels sweaty and shit, but she also need to get herself together. It’s hard to tell whether Quinn is flirting with her. Everything she says seems innocent enough, but who the fuck comes to a girls’ track meet when they could be enjoying their Saturday morning sleeping in? The ache in her muscles makes Santana wish she had that option. But this is Quinn Fabray, first in the class, who has never met an assignment she didn’t like. She probably actually is  _that_  eager to get started. The only thing Santana ever gets that excited for is waffles.  
  
After towel drying her air and plaiting it into a single braid so it won’t tangle, she pulls on her track pants. Not the grody McKinley ones, but her brand new Nike ones with the secret pocket on the side. She tops it with a purple hoodie from her old school. It’s not the most attractive combination, but its comfortable. She sure as hell isn’t going to feel underdressed for a study session with a girl who for all intents and purposes is about as interested in her as Santana herself is interested in dick.  
  
Quinn drives a Volvo. Its expensive but understated like the girl herself. It takes about twenty minutes to cross town and the ride passes mostly in silence. Santana knows the way she’s stretched out with her eyes closed gives the impression that she’s tired, and she is.  _God_ , she is, but she also doesn’t know what to say to Quinn that isn’t school-related and she’s not lame enough to even consider bringing up the project before they get to Quinn’s house.  
  
Once they arrive, Quinn leads her through a tastefully furnished living room to a picture perfect dining room with a large wooden table. They take a minute to set up and Santana can see Quinn’s notes, filled with lines of neat script and ordered with color coded sections and so different from her own jumbled mess of scribbles connected by arrows and markings decipherable only to her. Quinn purses her lips at the state of Santana’s notes, but doesn’t say anything. Santana laughs at her barely contained disapproval as she turns to a blank page.  
  
It goes well. Quinn and Santana work well together even if they tend to settle disagreements a little more fiercely than would be considered amiable. They complete the main outline as well as a list of tasks for them to complete before they met next. It’s decided they eventually need to meet at Santana’s house because she owns all the movies they’ll analyze and Quinn is the one person on the face of the earth who hasn’t heard of Netflix. Quinn casually mentions she hasn’t seen _Alien_  and Santana opens her mouth to comment on that blasphemy and discovers Quinn sitting much closer than expected. Santana doesn’t know what kind of sneaky trick she employed, but there used to be a solid foot between them. Now it’s merely inches, not nearly enough to keep her from feeling the warmth from Quinn’s skin and getting trapped in a cloud of her perfume.  
  
Quinn wears Coco by Chanel. Santana has always loved that fragrance. Her eyes trail down to Quinn’s lips, that perfect, kissable mouth and she knows this is not appropriate study partner behavior but she can’t stop herself from leaning in a little. It’s the buzz of her phone that brings her to her senses. Retrieving her cell form her pocket, she sees Mike on the caller I.D. Santana hates him almost as much as she loves him right now. She was about four seconds from shoving her tongue down Quinn’s throat. Quinn’s  _straight_ throat. She mumbles an apology and stands to take the call. Mike tells her how he dominated his meet and that he’s having a party at his house to celebrate. She can feel the smile creep onto her face. He’s really hoping for a scholarship and every win gets him closer. Quinn looks decidedly more put out the longer she talks to him. Santana guesses it’s because she’s probably being rude, but Quinn totally talked to her sister about an hour ago, so maybe its just that she’s quite obviously planning to attend a party Quinn’s not invited to. She hangs up.  
  
“Was that Mike?” The only indications of Quinn’s displeasure are her tight lips and that one eyebrow.  
  
“Yeah, he was just telling me how the guys did today. He’s having a thing later. You should come.”  
  
Quinn shakes her head “I don’t think I would know anyone.”  
  
“Dude, its Mike Chang. Nothing is more low-key than that. Plus you know Blaine. He pretends to know how to hurdle. And umm...Sam will probably bring that Asian girl you hang out with.  
  
It’s amusing to watch Santana’s grasping attempts to cull together a list of people she knows Quinn knows, because not only does Quinn have a small circle of friends to begin with, Santana is new and probably knows less people than she does. It’s also cute that Santana knows whom she hangs out with even though she always pretends not to look.  
  
“So you in or what?” Santana must catches to how revealing her argument is, because she rocks back on her heels and keeps her eyes on her notes as she packs them up.  
  
“Definitely.”  
\---  
Santana puts off telling Mike that she invited Quinn until the very last moment. He grunts in acknowledgement and continues to muscle the oversized couch against the wall.  
  
“So are you finally going to make a move?”  
  
“What?” Santana rolls her eyes at herself, because seriously she used to be more eloquent.  
  
“There’s something there, right? You two were making sexy eyes at each other that day at lunch.”  
  
“Mike, she’s straight”  
  
Mike just shrugs. “If you say so.”  
  
She’s not so sure anymore and its making her punchy. “Well your judgment clearly can’t be trusted. You hit on  _me_.”  
  
“I’m not saying she’s a lesbian, but she’s definitely into you.” Mike uses his reasonable voice, the one he always uses when she’s unfairly taking something out on him, but he doesn’t want to start a fight by calling her out on it.  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Maybe when Quinn comes tonight, she’ll test the waters and look for some kind of sign.  
\---  
Santana hangs with Mike in his basement all the time so she doesn’t consider the party officially started until Sam arrives with the booze. An hour or so later, she’s downed several drinks and floats in that perfect state between fun and sad. The alcohol has loosened her up so that she’s grinding with some random dude when Quinn walks in wearing an outfit hotter than anything Santana has ever seen her in. For one, she’s wearing jeans. Skinny jeans.  _Skintight_  jeans that do nothing but wonders for her legs and ass. The silky black shirt is on the prudish side but it stills shows off Quinn’s throat and collarbones and the gentle swell at the top of her breasts. Basically, all places where Santana would like her mouth to be.  
  
Quinn surveys the party and finds Santana. Her smile fades when she spots the guy Santana’s dancing with over her shoulder. It’s dark and crowded, but Santana can still see Quinn’s features morph into a frighteningly impressive bitchface. Quinn waves at a drunken, giggling Tina before cutting through the throngs of sweaty bodies towards Santana. It’s insane how watching Quinn stalk across the room is making Santana’s heart pound in her chest.Quinn stops directly in front of them and locks eyes with Santana. Barely glancing up at John Doe, she says, “I’m going to cut in. Bye” and shoves him roughly in the chest.  
  
Santana doesn’t get to see his reaction because Quinn wraps her fingers around Santana’s belt buckle and pulls until her back is against the wall and Santana is pressed against her front. She hooks an arm around Santana’s neck and begins to move. It’s reflex that has Santana moving along to the beat and not making a fool of herself by just standing there like the stupefied idiot she is. They aren’t dancing so much as dry humping to a pounding bassline. Her hands find Quinn’s hips and slip under her blouse to trace across her back. Santana practically moans at the feel of that hot skin finally under her palms. It’s like she can't control her hands as they run up and down trying to explore and memorize every newly discovered inch. Quinn presses closer and rubs her nose along Santana's jaw.  
  
“How much have you had to drink?” Santana has to know. Either Quinn is trashed or Santana is dreaming.  
  
Quinn’s raspy laugh is unexpected but it sends a flood of moisture straight between her legs.  
  
“Not much, you?”  
  
 _Not nearly enough._  She shrugs and leans in. They’re drunk and this is a bad idea, but Quinn is here and her fingers are digging into Santana’s shoulders and not taking this opportunity would be an even bigger mistake. It’s Quinn who connects their lips, bringing both hands up to grip Santana by the hair and licking into her mouth so aggressively that Santana shivers. The kiss lasts forever and yet not nearly long enough before she pulls hard again to get Santana to lean back. Santana hisses in pleasure and a dark satisfaction flashes in Quinn’s eyes. She’s holding Santana close enough that warm breath brushes across her check. It smells like rum and something fruity. The way her bottom lip trembles makes Santana want more. She doesn’t get it though because at that moment, Tina jostles into Quinn’s side.  
  
“Quinn. Blaine is heading out and offered to take us home. You ready to go?”  
  
If it were possible to skin someone with your eyes, Tina would resemble a peeled grape from the glare Quinn is sending her. A tense moment passes where they’re still locked together and Santana wonders if she’s going to need to hold Quinn back. Instead Quinn refocuses on Santana, like Tina hasn’t said anything at all.  
  
“I have to go. See you Monday?”  
  
Quinn’s hands release Santana’s hair and skim down her body to rest once again on the waistband of her jeans. Leaning closer, she brushes their lips together briefly before shooting Tina another dirty look and following her up the stairs. Santana stands there with tingling lips and an itch that she isn’t going to be able to scratch by herself in a million years.  
  
For the rest of the weekend, she thinks about Quinn literally every waking hour, including when she’s working on their project, when she’s just sitting around watching TV or jogging around the neighborhood. Santana thinks of her especially when she touches her self, rubbing in swift circles to get some kind of relief from the near-constant state of arousal she’s been in since Quinn set her world on fire.  
  
With the clarity of hindsight, she determines Quinn has definitely been flirting with her. Which is a good thing. What isn’t good is realizing how much she looks like a dipshit with no game. It’s a catastrophe that must be rectified. She invites Quinn over and laughs fondly when the girl shows up toting a bag full of books. Quinn smiles politely in greeting, as if she wasn’t sucking on Santana’s tongue just a few nights ago. The way her eyes linger on Santana’s mouth is the only clue she even remembers what went down in Mike’s basement. That little glance is enough, though. Santana might feel like a dumbass for not making a move before, but this is her game now. She leads Quinn up the stairs and down the hall to her room and waves her in first. Quinn’s looking around, dropping her bag on the floor and flipping through the stack of movies on top of the TV when Santana grabs her.  
  
Santana maneuvers them until Quinn’s hips collide with her desk. She nibbles a little on Quinn’s bottom lip before kissing her fully. Quinn doesn’t taste like rum this time, but instead like chocolate. Santana is willing to bet Quinn has a sweet tooth and that works just fine for her. She’s running her tongue along Quinn’s teeth when she feels the little growl vibrate against her chest. Before she can prepare, Quinn shoves hard and backs her onto the bed and sinks down into her lap. She leans forward and presses Santana back, grabbing her wrists and pinning her arms above her head. Quinn slides down her body and undoes her belt, yanking her pants off and tossing them carelessly to the floor. Her own skirt quickly follows. She settles back on top of Santana and slides her tongue back into her mouth. Quinn kisses her so deeply that Santana can only grip the back of her neck and hold on. She is literally aching with how much she needs Quinn to just... _touch her_. Anywhere.  
  
Quinn rocks her hips down hard and Santana almost explodes. The mouth firmly attached to hers is the only thing keeping Santana from keening loudly. Quinn shifts and hooks Santana’s leg over her hip and suddenly it’s clear as day that she’s done this before. Santana can’t contemplate how much of a mindfuck that is, because they’re pressed together in the most intimate way and Quinn’s mouth is everywhere, teeth scraping down her neck and biting her lip just hard enough to leave a lingering sting. Quinn grips Santana so that she can’t thrust her hips upward and just has to take what Quinn gives her. The torturously slow rhythm gradually increases until the pressure is finally enough to send Santana over the edge. This time there is nothing stopping her from yelling out. She’s panting on her back trying to wrap her mind around what just happened. Quinn props herself up on her elbow to peer down at her. She has this cocky little grin that Santana desperately wants to hate, but can’t.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
Her body is still quivering and Santana hasn’t felt this good in months. She finally pulls her eyes up from Quinn’s tits, which she still hasn’t gotten a good look a yet. Quinn is still fucking grinning like she just invented sex or some shit. That bitch is smug. Too smug and looking down at Santana like  _she_  was the conquest. Umm...no. That was not the point of this. Bucking up, Santana topples Quinn onto her back.  
  
“Hey.” she answers, already planning to make Quinn weep her name before she gets to leave this room.  
\---  
Quinn’s breath catches at the feral look on Santana’s face. When she came over here, it was with the hope of talking about whatever thing is going on between them and maybe to kiss Santana again. She definitely planned to work a little on their project. She didn’t anticipate anything like the passionate encounter that just happened. Santana has just wrestled Quinn out of her shirt and bra and the way she just stares at her breasts like they’re the center of the universe tells her this is going to continue to surpass her expectations.  
  
Santana licks her lips and Quinn nearly comes on the spot from how utterly sinful she looks.  
  
At the first touch of Santana’s hot mouth around her nipple, her hips jut forward uncontrollably. Santana settles more firmly on top her and pushes her back down. She nibbles and swirls her tongue as her hand toys with Quinn’s other breast. After switching and teasing mercilessly for what feels like hours she moves lower, kissing and licking down Quinn’s abdomen, slipping her tongue into her belly button and gently nipping at her hipbones.  
  
Santana slides further down the bed and spreads Quinn’s legs, kissing a trail up her legs. She spends a long time stroking up and down her thighs, murmuring about how long she’s waited to see, touch and taste them. Her lazy pace and sensual words are driving Quinn crazy.  
  
Santana continues massaging and dropping hot open mouthed kisses closer and closer to Quinn’s center but it’s not nearly enough. Quinn tangles her fingers in that mass of dark hair and yanks so that Santana is forced to look up at her.  
  
“Please.” Her voice is rough with desperation.They don’t pretend like this is a plea or request or anything other than an outright command.  
  
Santana waits one moment longer to prove whatever it is she needs to prove. Quinn doesn’t care what kind of challenge this is; she just needs Santana’s mouth on her now.  
  
Santana grins, knowing that even though she’s technically obeying, she has won.  
  
She noses Quinn open, inhaling the heady sent and exhaling hotly onto the sensitive flesh there. Quinn is so wet that Santana’s lips already glisten just from lightly grazing her. There’s an angry sort of whine coming from the head of the bed so Santana presses her tongue firmly against Quinn, using firm, sure strokes before opening her mouth and sucking gently.  
  
The noises escaping her are embarrassing but Santana’s tongue is like magic, stroking and flicking. She uses her teeth and Quinn just  _cannot_.  
  
“Oh fuck, Santana”  
  
That bitch grins into her and does it again. Quinn is sobbing when Santana pushes into her with two fingers and presses up hard. She does it again and again, all the while with her lips wrapped around Quinn’s clit.  
  
When she comes, Quinn screams Santana’s name.  
  
Santana kisses a trail up her body and settles back on her knees, hands lightly tracing up and down her sides. Fingers still damp from pleasuring Quinn, pluck lazily at her nipple. Santana doesn’t say anything at all, but there is an utterly content look on her face that delights Quinn more than any trite platitudes ever could.  
  
Quinn is the one who breaks the silence.  
  
“I’m glad I came over.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
They end up getting an A on the project. Santana gets a permanent cheerleader at meets for the rest of the season. Quinn gets Santana to wear overalls more often.


End file.
